


Kitchen Sweats

by Pashalawa



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Domestic Kitchen Nudity (an important tag), Drunken Shenanigans, Hangover misery, M/M, Pre-OT3, Ray's Rude Mouth (RRM), serious relationship moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26764102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pashalawa/pseuds/Pashalawa
Summary: Kitchen Sweats, AKA the pair of sweats one strategically leaves in the kitchen in case you end up needing emergency pants and find yourself without them.After a night of drunken sex for the three of them, Ray and Brad have to find a way to approach Nate. That means having adult conversations about feelings. Of course, that's not a problem for three adults that like each other...right?
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Nate Fick, Brad Colbert/Nate Fick/Ray Person, Brad Colbert/Ray Person, Nate Fick/Ray Person
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Kitchen Sweats

**Author's Note:**

> In which I reveal my obsession for domesticity and my support for casual nudity. Who needs pants. 
> 
> Based on character interpretations as portrayed in the series 'Generation Kill'. Not meant to be reflective of the actual boys out there livin' their lives and doin' their best. Hats off.
> 
> Spoiler Alert: IDK what I'm doing, it should become rapidly apparent.
> 
> Rated T for a lot of references to sex, and a lot of dick talk, but this is post fuckin' so I figured people could handle it! 
> 
> WARNING: does contain a lot of hangover feelings like nausea and dry heaving, so if that's uncomfortable for you, be aware!

Oh sweet holy mother of hangovers. 

For a few moments, a few precious, precious moments, Ray woke up thinking that maybe he evaded the unholy hell of a hangover he knew was coming. No headache, no nausea, no thick aftertaste of sweet drinks on his tongue—it was the stupid bitch drinks, according to Brad, that gave him such a monster afterparty. All that sugar, Brad said. Ray countered with  _ that's what makes me sweet, asshole _ . 

Only he did not feel sweet in the current moment. Right now...he needed the bathroom. 

It was surprising how fast he moved under the heavy blanket of one of the worst hangovers he's had since Australia. He made it to the bathroom just in time, dry heaving over the toilet, bare shoulders shivering slightly at the sudden change from the warmth of his cocoon to the tiled floor. And there he stayed, alternating between nearly vomiting his actual stomach organ out to resting his head on the edge of the tub. It took...well, about fifteen minutes for him to get out of his heavy self-pity before he remembered. He leaned his back against the tub and looked back into the bedroom, trying to see the rise of a body in the bed—there wasn't one. It was Saturday, so Brad might have left early to catch the waves or whatever bohemian liberal california bullshit he did. But Nate...should have been there. Because they definitely fucked last night. 

But he was not in the bed. 

After a few more minutes, Ray pulled himself to his feet, arched his back in as good a stretch as he could get, and left the bedroom. Then he immediately groaned. "Oh, fuck—oh it's bright in here. Why are the windows open?" Ray lifted a hand over his eyes and fought the second wave of unforgiving upchuck.

Brad was here, it seemed. Still no sign of Nate, but Brad was sitting at the kitchen table, eating eggs with what looked like spinach, and Ray lost his battle against the dry heave. "Ray," Brad said, without looking up. "Do you have a backwoods trailer trash allergy to pants or is this some sort of hick mating ritual because...it's not working." 

Oh yeah. He was naked. Eh. "Oh like you don't fucking love it," Ray said, voice raw and wavering as he dropped unceremoniously onto the chair across from Brad. Then he groaned again, this time louder so Brad would be able to properly measure his misery. "Oh fuck, man, whatever we did last night my ass is fucking beat—" He considered reaching across the table to steal a piece of toast, but didn't because actually puking was not on the menu today. "Where'd he go? S'already gone?"

“Ray.” Ray looked up as Brad set both of his utensils down beside his plate of eggs with the forced patience of an aging Tibetan monk. “You haven’t showered and your ass is definitely not kitchen table clean.” He looked physically pained at the notion, and Ray was far too hungover for his usual rebuttal. They surfaced in his mind regardless:  _ technically, anything that’s on this ass probably came from you, so who is actually getting the chair dirty?  _

But he didn’t have the energy for that. His head hurt so he pressed the tips of his fingers hard into his temple in an attempt to alleviate the throbbing ache that felt like it was surging through his whole body. He could time it at this point, the sharp pain followed by a wave of nausea. “What, want me to put a towel down?” He asked, not moving an inch. He was set to stay firmly still, to prove that his question had been merely out of respect—but his ass  _ did _ hurt, so he shifted forward anyway. “God, I’m not kidding, you gotta be gentle with me dude your drunk massive nordic cock is a lot.” 

Ray expected Brad to shoot back some sassy commentary about how it was his fault he had such a little bitch asshole, but he didn’t. Instead he got up and walked over to the sink. “You okay?” Brad asked, and Ray watched as Brad reached up with a long arm to grab the mug he knew was Ray’s favorite. It was a totally normal mug, saved for the thick, dick shaped handle. Ray had picked it up at a garage sale two years ago and presented it to Brad one morning over coffee. He got a good laugh out of Brad that day. 

“Yeah, s’fine,” Ray said after a minute. He couldn’t help but notice that Brad was, as always, entirely at peak performance. He didn’t seem to have any aches, or any symptoms of a hangover. How unfair. Ray shifted again in his seat until he found a position that was mostly ache free. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he offered, because he knew from experience that this would be better after a day. He dipped his nose into his palm, trying to remember which man specifically was responsible. He’d have to  _ owe _ one of them. 

“Okay.” Brad’s tone made Ray peek his head back up, despite the light, but by the time he looked, whatever face that accompanied the tone he’d used was gone. Instead, his man set the penis mug on the table in front of him and shook a bottle of advil before he set that down as well. “Here. Unless you’ve already taken it.” 

Oh, he needed it. He just wasn’t so sure he’d be able to keep it down. He took the bet nonetheless. With a twist of his wrist he had the advil cap off, and two of the blue capsules tumbled into his cupped palm. “So?” Ray popped the pulls into his mouth and sipped the lukewarm tap water from the mug—a good temperature, it didn’t offend his sensitive stomach. “He left?” 

Brad didn’t seem to respond, so Ray squinted his eyes against the light and wondered briefly if he’d...somehow drunkenly inserted a fake Nate into their sex. It would be a first, but Ray was no stranger to some pretty elaborate fantasies. Of course, most of them took place when Brad was overseas and all he had was his hand. “Wait, Nate was here right? I’m not imagining that? That was real?”

“Yeah, he was. He left...he was still a little drunk.” Brad picked up his own plate from the table and moved to stand at the counter—a sign that he was clearly unsettled. Ray knew all his stupid little ticks by now. He knew this meant his mind was elsewhere entirely. That was fine, his was too. As long as Brad didn’t choke on his eggs, it was okay. 

Either that, or Brad was kind enough to move his scented food away from his clearly sick and hungover boyfriend. 

It may have been both, because he seemed to have a good reason to be a little out of sorts. At Brad’s revelation that Nate was still drunk, Ray’s eyebrows shot up high. “Oh shit...that’s intense,” he said, and watched with bleary red-shot eyes as Brad stabbed at the remainder of his food on the plate. “So what, you didn’t want to make him your little gay breakfast buffet? Figured you’ve been waiting since Iraq for that.” 

Ray’s gentle ribbing didn’t make the kind of purchase it usually did. Brad didn’t deny anything, he only tilted his head in a general acknowledgement that somehow doubled as a dismissal. “He didn’t seem to want to stick around,” Brad said, and Ray rolled his neck back before he looked around the kitchen for his kitchen sweats. 

He didn’t see them. It was another thing he might have pointed out if he weren’t so hungover and currently caught in unburying the lead here. His kitchen sweats served a very important function! Now he didn’t have pants in easy reaching distance. 

Whatever. 

“Really?” Ray got up slowly from the table, but when he righted himself he was mostly alright. Alright enough to walk over to the other side of the counter and lean on it. He pillowed his chin in his crossed arms. “What happened?”

Another sign Brad’s mind was elsewhere, he’d yet to renew his commentary on Ray’s nudity. It was hardly a new or unusual thing, but it was rare that Brad would go this long without slinging out some sort of thinly-veiled affectionate insult. “I don’t know...I don’t think he—I don’t know.”

Oh, that wasn’t good. Brad sounded...upset. And unsure. And he was the one who had been extremely adamant that he was right about Nate liking them. It made Ray’s stomach churn a little, but not in the way he thought it would. He felt a strong twinge that likely squeezed his chest due to the fact that somehow, something had gone wrong with Nate—the last thing either of them wanted. But the deeper feeling was out of a protective coil that always stirred up in his gut when Brad seemed sad, or hurt, or lost, or anything other than 100% himself. “...Oh.” 

And for a moment, it was quiet. Brad continued to stab at his eggs, and Ray took the opportunity to stretch out his back with the counter as his stabilizer. After a moment, he had to turn away from the food, and Brad took the cue to deposit his mostly empty plate in the sink. He didn’t even note that Ray had followed  _ him _ to the counter. Instead, he stood still for a minute at the sink, water running until he shut it off with the heel of his hand. “Did something happen? While I was out?” 

The question set Ray’s internal alarm off. Brad was asking it too innocently, without eye contact, and Ray wasn’t easily fooled. Brad must have known something he didn’t know. Ray crossed one ankle behind the other as he stood, toes pressing into the ground so he could keep his balance as he squinted at Brad, waiting to catch him with direct eye contact. “Uh...no? Why? I mean, I have no fucking idea I was passed out.” 

Which was the absolute truth. Not much could wake a hungover Ray before he was ready. But Brad was still avoiding him, and instead of turning toward him he started to open the dishwasher right next to him. Ray pursed his lips in a frown at him while he emptied the top rack, carefully placing the cups into their proper spots. “It’s nothing.” 

“Nothing my fucking ass,” Ray muttered, and he grabbed a packet of taco bell hot sauce that he’d left on the counter. Ha! Even hungover, his aim was great. The packet sailed through the air and hit Brad right in the ear. “Don’t play games with me. I pulled so much weight last night. Why’d you ask if anything happened?”

This time, Brad didn’t miss a beat. He bent down to scoop up the sauce packet and flicked out his wrist so effortlessly Ray wasn’t sure he’d tossed it at all. Or he wouldn’t have been, had the packet not clipped him right on the nose. “Ow! Motherfucker. The edge got me.”

Brad smiled at his rant before the grin dripped off and he went back to focusing on the dishwasher. “He got a little strange when you were brought up, so I thought maybe something happened. Or maybe before I got there at the bar.” 

Ray stilled, and Brad stilled, likely anticipating Ray’s own reaction. “What do you mean strange,” Ray asked, voice not nearly as non-committal as Brad’s was. Ray’s voice was colored with strain, dry from a night of drinking and cock sucking and edgy from the sudden awareness that maybe, just as he’d suspected all along,  _ he _ was the problem. 

It was a feeling that Brad knew about. Hell, he  _ had _ to know about it, seeing as Ray had expressed this very concern just about a million times. In fact, every conversation they had about Nate, Ray lingered in his self-doubt. Now, he watched as Brad finally turned to him, catching onto his slight slip up. “It’s nothing, Ray. Shouldn’t have mentioned it.” 

But now Ray knew about it, and he wasn’t going to let it go. He had what many who knew him referred to as ‘pit bull jaws’. Once he latched onto something, you’d have to pull his teeth out to get him to disengage. “No fuck that, what do you mean weird?” He stopped slumping against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Or  _ strange _ , or whatever. What do you mean?”

Brad sighed and pressed both palms against the counter. The top rack of the dishwasher was fully emptied. “He just got...I don’t know, Ray. Uncomfortable.” Brad shook his head and tapered his voice off, and that normally meant the end of a discussion. At least, it meant that Brad  _ wanted _ the conversation to end. Ray rarely gave him that gift, especially when it revolved around his dick and Nate’s acceptance of it. 

“Well,” Ray chewed on his lip and let out a sharp huff through his nose. His headache was still there, just behind his eyes, surging so strong that he almost felt like he was being rocked by waves. Like he was on a boat. “Was he strange and uncomfortable with you too?”

Onto the bottom half of the dishwasher, then. Ray thought briefly about helping him—as jarring as all that was to hear, it was clear that Brad was upset about this too. He wanted to help ease that a bit...but the idea of bending over right now might end very poorly for the both of them. They might end up having to run the dishwasher again. “Yeah, it looked like it,” Brad said, and methodically sorted the dishes. Ray had seen him do it enough times to know the order Brad liked it in. First bowls, then plates, then the other cooking items, and last, the silverware. 

The silverware, unfortunately, brought through a very intrusive thought. While he and Nate had been messing around in the booth, right after a very sloppy and embarrassing kiss (he would have liked the chance to show Nate how he kissed sober, he was much better), Ray had ended up knocking a hand to the table and jarring the silverware set, napkin and all, onto the floor. He dipped his head down to look at the counter. Maybe he actually  _ was  _ the issue. What had he fucked up? “I don’t think I did anything.” 

Brad must have caught the tone, because he looked up immediately, two plates in his hands. As he stacked them and set them on the table, he shook his head at Ray. His eyes were nothing but tired and gentle though. Concerned. It made Ray feel a little less...guilty. “Look, we didn’t really talk. I likely misread the signals, and he was still drunk.” 

“Yeah, or he didn’t want to sleep with me,” Ray said bluntly, because that was what he was thinking, and he might as well say it. He didn’t hold back much around Brad anyway, and...well, it seemed like a viable possibility and Brad needed to consider it. Where did that leave them? If Nate wanted Brad but not him? 

But Brad didn’t seem to indulge in that train of thought at all. “No,” he said, firm but soft all in one syllable, and it was enough that for a second Ray believed him. He busied himself with organizing and stacking the hot sauce on the counter according to color gradient—aesthetically pleasing, Brad should approve. Ray kept at it while Brad pushed on. “I think he was just surprised. We were all drunk...when we shouldn’t have been.”

“Yeah.” That was true. That was very true. The last thing he wanted to be was Nate’s drunken mistake, and he knew Brad felt the same way. Although, really, if Nate considered Brad a mistake of any kind he was going to have a long talking to. Brad was no one’s  _ mistake _ and Ray was willing to take that to his grave.

He would have liked to leave it at that, but his mind kept churning. After a moment, the self-defeating sad guilt was beaten out by a bitter and petty frustration. You know what? He was pretty good in bed. Probably. Look he was good enough that Nate shouldn’t have dipped out on him like that. And they were friends, weren’t they? And—and he  _ started _ it. “But you know what he definitely made the first move, okay, I’m fucking sure of it.”

Brad tilted his head up at him, doing that one eyebrow raise that used to send Ray’s stomach into little flips. It still did, if he were honest. But now wasn’t the time for honesty, and it wasn’t the time to be all enamored with his pretty man. Now was the time for indignant hurt. “Did he?” Brad asked, though he sounded less surprised than the question would suggest. 

Ray jammed a finger pointedly down onto the counter. His conversion to butthurt and hungover to angry and hungover was nearly complete. “Yes, he fucking did, so you know if he wants to get all  _ strange _ about me now then he can just...kiss my ass.” 

Too much anger, too much energy. His head throbbed, and Ray abruptly ducked his head to stop himself from dry heaving. Brad caught the move though, and was over by his side in a second. He’d even brought a bowl, on the off chance that Ray was ready to spit up the pill he’d taken. “Easy,” he said, and Ray felt his hand, warm and firm, on the middle of his back. “You should eat something in a little bit. Just some toast or cheerios—” He hesitated for a moment and Ray flicked his eyes up to him. Brad looked...sad. “Ray he was still drunk, and it was clearly shocking...we shouldn’t draw conclusions. We should give him some space and time, and then we’ll figure it out.”

But his balming words came too late. Ray was already fired up, and his body hurt, and his ass hurt, and if he was going to be _ literally _ butt hurt then he might as well engage in every aspect of the word. “Fine,” he said curtly, and pushed away from the counter and Brad’s hand. “Gonna shower.”

But Brad stopped him easily with an arm out, like the bar coming down on a roller coaster ride. “Hey.” Ray tried to ignore him, because he would much rather simmer in his anger than the alternative: a reality where Nate didn’t want him, or didn’t want  _ them _ , after Ray had gone and gotten himself all butterfly bubbly about him. 

Brad tried anyway. His hand drifted up to flick under Ray’s long eyelashes. Ray didn’t flinch. It had been a game at first: Brad would go to touch his eyelashes and Ray would twitch, and then Brad would get all smug, as if Ray’s sense of eyeball perseverance was somehow a weakness. But after so many years, Ray was used to it. He didn’t twitch. His eyes only fluttered gently closed. “I mean it. This isn’t on you.” 

“You know what, Bradley? You’re right.” Ray pat Brad’s chest, fingers curling in his shirt for a second before he pushed lightly off him and went to stalk past the table and toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “I know it’s not on me. It’s not at all the fuck on me, he was the one ordering shots and  _ confusing _ me with his stupid green eyes and his handsome nose.” Ray huffed, finally a little deflated, and rubbed the back of his head. His hair felt dirty. “I’m taking a shower.” 

“Okay.” Was all Brad said, and as Ray turned down the hallway, he heard him speak one more time. “I’ll...burn this chair, then.” 

“Go ahead, but then I’ll have no choice but to sit bare-ass on other furniture so I think we might as well designate it a nude chair,” Ray called back, and had enough good humor to smile to himself at how disturbed Brad would have been at that thought. 

Showers were often a time for personal concerts (mostly featuring Avril, Britney, N'sync, and sometimes, if he was feeling wild enough, he’d throw in a little New Kids on the Block). Shampoo bottles were microphones, and the length of the tub was designed specifically so people could ‘hammer time’ back and forth. That’s what he told himself, at least. Ray rarely had a sad, introspective shower. He always took offense at the movie scenes where people sat on the floor and cried under the running water. 

But right now all he really wanted to do was lay down under the running water. He blamed that on the hangover, but he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that half of it was the stress of their drunken one night stand. 

That did not go well. Clearly it hadn’t, if Nate had left before he’d even gotten up. He stood motionless under the shower for a few minutes, forehead pressed against the tiles in front of him as the pressure beat at his shoulders and rolled down his back. Brad had put a lot of effort into the shower—he wanted the proper pressure, and good coverage, and  _ damn _ if it wasn’t Ray’s favorite thing in the whole house. 

Okay, focus. Nate left. Why’d he leave? Several reasons surfaced in Ray’s mind, but he didn’t feel the need to claw into any of them. No, the biggest stress that rumbled in his mind like an over-packed washing machine was the fact that they’d all been very drunk and it was possible that while Brad and Ray had  _ very much _ wanted Nate...maybe he hadn’t felt the same. 

The thought made him feel bad. For himself, for Nate, for Brad—who had cared about Nate for so long, Ray knew. He could see it. He’d been right, too. They shouldn’t have been drunk. They shouldn’t have been drinking that much. But Ray had made enough terrible decisions while drunk, and he didn’t consider this one of them. Truth be told, he’d felt amazing last night. He knew Brad did. 

And now, with water running over him and the scent of some peachy shampoo he could remove himself far enough from his own frustrations to just be concerned about Nate. That was his friend, and if last night was something he didn’t want, then Ray would need to apologize, and figure out how to fix it, and how to...put his own messy feelings back into a box. 

By the time Ray had gotten out of his shower, he felt better enough to cage most of his agitation. Brad was right. They needed to give Nate time, especially since he was still drunk and...who else knew what was going through his head. It was a lot, right? So he could be kind about it. If it killed him, he could be kind about it. He cared about Nate. Nate deserved his patience and understanding. 

And he was prepared to tell this to Brad, only the motherfucker had vanished. He wasn’t in their bedroom, or the living room or kitchen, and his truck was still outside, which meant—oh. 

Ray already knew what he was going to see before he even opened the door to the garage. Brad was laying on the ground, under his bike with his little box of bike tools laid out beside him. Ray sat on the edge of the work bench, hair still dripping down the nape of his neck and spreading a wet stain onto the rim of one of Brad’s shirts. “Hey,” Ray said, arms pressed to either side as he hooked his palms to the work bench, fingers curled around the edge. 

Brad only hummed in response. He didn’t look up, he didn’t flinch or deviate at all from whatever he was very seriously wrenching away from the bike. 

Ray watched him closely, face softening a bit as he realized that while he was getting his emotions under control, Brad’s were likely running full steam ahead. He should have sat with him a while longer. They should have talked it out a little more. Ray lifted one hand to drag it hard across the back of his neck. 

“Brad,” He tried again to get Brad’s full attention. It didn’t work, but he knew he was listening. “It’s not on you either, you know. It was a good night. You’re right. He’s probably just still drunk. And you know, I don’t even know how comfortable he is with the whole you know...dicks on dicks thing.” 

That phrasing finally got Brad to look up, and Ray completed the look by miming a blow job, fist to his mouth and tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. He jerked his hand back and forth and wiggled his eyebrows. Normally, that would get him a laugh. He knew this, because it was a tried and true bit. This time, Brad’s lips only twitched the slightest, and he went back to focusing on his bike. 

“Yeah.” It was all he said. Ray frowned. His own frustration had been under control, but now this? Now his dumb big gay softie was all pouty and sad, and that just couldn’t happen. That had to be fixed immediately. It was fine if Ray was upset. When  _ wasn’t _ Ray bitching about something. But Brad? Not to mention Nate was, apparently,  _ also _ upset. That wouldn’t do. None of this would do. But Ray was particularly burdened by Brad’s emotional softness. Not many new how delicate his stupid viking really was. But he knew. And dammit...Nate knew too. 

“So we’ll talk. We’ll talk to Nate, and help him feel better, and we’ll feel better, and we’ll all feel better, and have one of those stupid grown up discussions that make us both want to blow out our brains, and it will be...fine.” Ray sighed when Brad once again only hummed an affirmative.

“Okay. So stop sulking and come watch 90 Day Fiance with me.” Ray slid off the work table and kicked at Brad’s leg lightly with his toes. “It’s a good one. Besides I’m positive Erika is gonna dump her today and I’ve been waiting for this moment since the amazing boob-molding date—which reminds me, you’ve never asked for a mold of my dick and that’s a little hurtful.”

But even that didn’t bait Brad. He just picked up a new tool, eyes sharp and focused on whatever the hell he was doing down there. “Record it,” he said stiffly, and Ray frowned until Brad looked at him again. “Just need to think for a minute,” he said, and after a moment, Ray nodded. Okay. Brad could think for a second. And while he thought, Ray was going to make sure that if anyone was going to be in trouble here, it would be him. Nate deserved the best, and quite frankly, Brad  _ was _ the best, and  _ he _ didn’t deserve to be feeling bad enough to hide under his bike. But before Ray could express all this, Brad fished another tool out of the box and cleared his throat. “How’s your ass.” 

“Better when you think about it honey buns,” Ray shot back, without hesitation. The phrase had been enough to settle him back down. Brad needed space to think without Ray interjecting and hovering over him...so he’d give him that. Besides, he needed to attempt to put something solid in his stomach. “You have two hours in here then I’m gonna smoke you out.”    
  


At Brad’s grumbled affirmative, Ray stepped out of the garage and closed the door behind him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! And as always, thank you to ancamna0 for creating this amazing GK verse with me that gives me the best escape!


End file.
